


Retrograde

by bellinibeignet



Series: It's Easy to Remember [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 23:38:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellinibeignet/pseuds/bellinibeignet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the sickness and the bigger things, they were still grappling over whether love was enough. </p><p>In which Eames finally snaps, and Arthur pushes him away, and they find themselves on an empty street in nine-degree weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retrograde

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, you don't have to read the whole verse, but the more I write these blips, I hope that you'll start at the beginning.
> 
> Which is funny. Because I tell the story out of order, yeah? But I think that there is still some order. In some odd way, I think the verse is revealing itself to me in the order that it wants. If that makes sense.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you love it.
> 
> (I listened to Poison & Wine by The Civil Wars a lot while writing this.)

 

 

It wasn’t difficult to become frustrated with Arthur, but Eames handled frustration with enough grace that it was rarely let on. And that said a lot about them, didn’t it? Because Eames rolled with the punches on the days where Arthur was in foul moods and grunting about; he never said a bad word to him. But Arthur was quicker to call him out on his behaviors, whether he’d smoked a cigarette in the house or blew money on a weekend of gambling or fell asleep on the couch knowing he was prone to neck cramping.

There was reason for it all - their individual ways of loving one another. Eames was used to Arthur’s insane unawareness of his own stress. The man worked himself to the bone, never realizing that the strains from work spilled into a wonky attitude at home. Eames rarely blamed him for those naggy days, but sometimes, things got excessive.

And mostly because… what were they really? What the hell were they doing? They weren’t exactly a pair of queens at camp, gushing in love and enjoying a regular home life.

No. They were two blokes involved in a not-so-legal business who flew between a flat in London and an apartment in Boston, never quite getting around to discussing their exclusivity. Long weeks would pass without seeing one another because of jobs, increasingly dangerous jobs, and, when they were finally in the same company, their time together was a complete gamble.

Most times, there were days and days of rolling within one another, ordering food in and sharing showers. Those were the times where they were rather sure they belonged to one another. Dreamsharing wasn’t the only place they felt comfortable anymore. In fact, when they finished a job, it didn’t truly feel over until the other’s plane had landed and they were close enough to touch again.

Lately, they lived in one another’s apartments, waiting, so that the other wouldn’t have to come home to an empty place.

That sort of meant they were in love, didn’t it?

However, sometimes they forgot about that. Sometimes, it was easy to forget being in love with someone when showing it happened more than actually voicing it confidently, because saying it conveyed finality. And finality was a feared term when being shot in dreams was a norm.

Eames loved Arthur, and he hoped to God that it was returned, but some days, he needed Arthur to let himself bleed the word so he didn’t feel so lonely. After a long crawl in Belize, he didn’t want to come home to Arthur pecking at him, showing him he loved him by annoying the fuck out of him. Even Eames had his breaking point.

Yes, loving Arthur was a gamble. And God knew Eames wasn’t great at winning.

 

-

 

Eames was a slow boil. For the three days since he’d been home (or rather, in Arthur’s home), Arthur had either been working in his office or complaining, sometimes about work itself. Unfortunately and usually, the complaints usually addressed something Eames did, was doing, or was about to do.

Eames knew exactly why Arthur was angry. He’d taken on a job that wasn’t easy, a job that Arthur asked him not to go on (because he knew that there were shady people involved, namely a half-assed point man). Eames went anyway because he owed that point man a favor (and he could bloody take care of himself, couldn’t he?).

The job, as Arthur assumed, went awry. The extractor got shot, and Eames had to pick up the pieces, forging and extracting. He’d gotten paid handsomely, but working with incompetent people wasn’t something anyone liked to do. Not when company goons with heavy artillery were just waiting for you to fail.

Arthur was more bothered by it than Eames was, and Eames knew it wasn’t just the job. This was about them. This was about the danger that Eames had been put in, and Arthur’s criminal unawareness of his own goddamn emotions.

Arthur had just walked into the bedroom from his office, and found Eames sitting in the window seat having a fag and staring aimlessly out of the window. Between Arthur huffing about the smoking and Eames not listening, Eames felt his balance finally topple over.

He flicked the cigarette out of the window and shut it. “Would it be an absolute challenge for you to back off for five minutes, love? Christ have it.” He stood and went to the bed, plopping lazily on his side, staring up at the ceiling.

“What do you mean by that?” Arthur bit, raking through a drawer (Eames’ drawer) and coming out with a pair of thick socks. He sat on the end of the bed and slipped into them.

“You honestly think I want to come home from a job that went tits up and have you needling at me? If you aren’t going to give me the I-told-you-sos, can you just give me some goddamn solitude?”

Arthur laughed wryly. “Whatever,” he said, because he knew that that fucking word sat harshly with Eames.

Eames came up on his elbow and looked down to the end of the mattress. “God, you can be such a sod.”

Arthur stood to leave the bedroom. “Yeah, then why are you even here?” he said lazily over his shoulder.

“I wonder it as well,” Eames bit back before he could think of having composure.

Arthur slowed in his tracks, then turned and leaned into the doorjamb, folding his arms around his chest. “Really?”

Eames huffed, sitting straight up and reaching towards his toes, trying to loosen the tension in his back and thighs. With a grunt, he plopped his hands between in the small circle his legs had formed. He felt sort of like a child, and maybe his ‘why doesn’t daddy love me?’ issues were spilling over now.

“Is it so hard for you to have any semblance of a positive reaction to me being home? You’d think in a proper relationship you’d say you were glad I was safe, not gloat that you were right.”

“Gloat? I’m not _gloating_.”

“Oh come off, Arthur,” he huffed, sitting up. “Ask yourself the question: what are we doing here, love? Do you even know? Because sometimes I don’t think you do.”

Arthur looked at him with eyes that may have seemed threatening to anyone else. He said nothing.

“Don’t give me that look, Arthur,” Eames grunted, standing. He searched for his shoes. The air was too thick. He wanted a drink. “I’m just saying that you could make it a bit easier.”

He heard Arthur’s breath hitch at that. “You think it’s that hard to love me?”

Eames burned at that. He paused from his search, realizing how close he was to the doorway when he pointed a finger his way and it entered Arthur’s personal space. Because how dare he use that word in that context. How could he ask a question like that? “Don’t even. It’s bloody easy to love you. It’s being with you that’s so sodding difficult, innit?” He huffed, letting his arms collapsing to his side. “I need a drink.”

“And that’s my fault, huh?” Arthur spat, going over to grab Eames’ shoes and shoving them into his stomach. “I’m difficult to be with.”

Eames huffed. He was close enough to Arthur to lean in for a kiss, one he was probably desperate to feel. Three days ago, Eames was on a plane, deciding that he’d go straight to Boston instead of home, because he needed Arthur, needed the best stress relief there was, and that was laying eyes on him.

Because that was the beauty of it all – knowing. Looking at him and knowing that he’d found someone he was willing to belong to, willing to lie next to and have a private dream.

He knew damn well that Arthur felt the same way.

But. It’s easy to forget.

“You think I like being with someone who can’t pull his head out of his arse to say ‘I love you’? Or, better yet, someone who instantly gets shell shocked when _I_ happen to let it slip?” Eames slipped into his trainers and angrily tightened the laces. “I have to bite my tongue just to be comfortable with you.”

“Then leave!” Arthur snapped as Eames stood. “We’re sitting here making fools of each other anyway. You can’t con yourself into a relationship just because the sex is good.”

If Eames was in the right frame of mind, he might’ve known that that insensitive blunder was a projected fear, not his actual opinion. But he wasn’t. He was tired and stressed and desperate to feel, so it stabbed at his chest.

The air was stagnant and full as they stared at one another. Arthur didn’t mean to say it, and it was all over his face.

“Is that what you think?” Eames asked.

Arthur was stoic.

“You think this whole thing…” Eames gestured with his hands at the space between them. “…is a con?”

Again, Arthur said nothing.

Eames nodded to himself, accepting it as an answer. “Well, that’s bloody brilliant, that is.” He slipped passed Arthur and into the hall.

“You’re the one being so goddamn mysterious about this shit!” Arthur finally yelled back, close behind Eames.

Eames laughed. “You’re taking the piss,” he said, finding his coat. He turned to look at Arthur while he slipped it on. “I’m the idiot in this whole thing. I’m in Belize waiting to get back to you, and you just called our relationship a fucking con!”

“You were anxious to get back to _this?_ ” Arthur snapped back. “Look at us. We’re arguing, like always.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“You’re saying it’s my fault that we argue?”

“I’m saying it’s not mine. I’m the one that is in love with you like some sick puppy, and you’re much more interested in pointing out everything I do wrong. Because you’re better than me, huh?”

“I have _never_ said that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“I swear to God, Eames. Be a bit less obtuse here! How could we really ever make something like this work? We’ve spent more time apart than we’ve spent together. At any given moment, we’re three fucking time zones away from one another.”

“Is that the excuse?”

“We knew better than to get into this in the first place, Eames! For crying out loud, we have absolutely no shot at stability. We aren’t cut out for that!”

“Yeah, well, I never asked for stability. I just wanted to love you, didn’t I?”

“And what makes you think that that’s enough?”

That last sentence hung in the air as the blue eyes stared scornfully into the brown, wondering if the question was for argument’s sake, or of honesty. And God if the only thing he found in Arthur’s eyes was truth.

What more did Eames have to prove? He was a lonely person, but he knew how to be alone. Before Arthur came along and pulled the rug from beneath him, with his edges and snark and hips, he was just fine. Then, Arthur came from the left and stood there asking Eames to love him halfway, love him with an electric fence to separate them, with a trapeze bar only inches from the ground for fear of falling too fast and too hard.

“Apparently it's not enough,” Eames said, almost inaudibly, leaving, ignoring the sound of Arthur cursing in frustration as he slammed the door.

-

The Reilly Bar was a bit of a shitty place, but it was the bar that Arthur and Eames frequented when they fancied a drink. It was small, with ugly old wooden tables and a jukebox that was past its day, and it was in walking distance of Arthur’s apartment, making it a choice place. It held quite a lot of charm.

And all of the liquor that Eames was looking for.

The bartender, Lily Anne, came to him, bottle in her hand, and poured him another whiskey.

He offered his sloppy and crooked smile gratefully.

“Last one,” she said sternly.

“Wha’?”

“Last one, Mista Eames,” she said again, this time laughing and slipping the bottle under the bar. She leaned on the bar with her elbows. “I called him.”

Eames groaned like a child in a temper tantrum. “Why’d you go an’ do that for?”

“Because you have been in my bar for two hours, drinking like a frat boy and scowling at anyone who smiles.”

He quite liked Lily Anne. She had fire engine red hair and a short frame. She had a tattoo of Tennessee on the inside of her arm, and, even if she’d lived in Boston for ten years, her southern twang didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Arthur joked that she and Eames had a serious war of the vernaculars; Eames skated gently past his r’s while L.A. hit them square, and neither of them believed in g's.

She had a soft heart for the pair for them. Perhaps it was the natural maternity. She was probably a lot older than she looked, which Eames pegged at her early fifties. A gentleman never asked, but she had a son who was Arthur's age, so he assumed the math.

There were other more obvious reasons of her interest in them. On the wall behind the bar were multiple photos of her son and his husband, the most recent pictures with a small child. They all lived on the other side of the country, so she didn’t see them too often, so it was understandable that she would superimpose them on Eames and Arthur whenever they came around.

"Tell me why you don't want him here."

Eames huffed, looking at his empty glass. Then, he shot her a curious look. "Did 'e say 'e was comin'?"

"Of course. He's on his way now."

"Huh."

"Why don't you want him here?"

"Of course I bloody wan'im here. Tha's the problem, innit?" He grunted.

“You really do get very cockney when you’re drunk, huh?”

Eames rubbed at his eyes, as if he could cajole the drunkenness out of his system. He asked for a glass of water, then looked over to the door, almost feeling nervous for Arthur to appear. He didn’t want to see him, but he did all of the same.

All he wanted was to come home and not think about a single fucking thing. Now, he was thinking of everything: past, future, the shit in between. He usually didn’t mind thinking of those things – he was a dreamer after all.

“What’s goin' on, honey? Talk to me.” Lily Anne set the glass of water in front of him. “And don’t you go runnin' around my questions, hear?”

Eames gulped down most of the glass, suddenly feeling incredibly hot and sweaty. When he saw Lily’s impatient face, he sighed. “We’re in… limbo with one another. I love him, but I don’t know if he loves me – I mean, of course I know he loves me, but shit, you know? I don’t think he knows it. Or, he knows it, and would rather fight it. We’re constantly going back and forth, and I never know if I’ll wake up wanting to strangle him or make love to him. It’s a fucking mess, L.A.”

She grinned. “Sounds like a beautiful story if you’re askin’ me.”

“Sounds like a fuckin’ tidal wave of shit I can’t handle. That’s what it sounds like.”

“Don’t you dare go talkin’ like that,” she said, and Eames almost believed she was angry as she pulled the towel hanging over her shoulder and swung it at him, hitting him. “I watch you two boys come in here and get hot eyes for one another all night, like, if you looked away, God and all of his vengeance would rain down on us.”

“Those are the good days.”

Lily Anne sighed. “They are all good days, honey. Me and my first husband never fought. Never. Hell, we rarely talked, rarely disagreed. Perfect marriage. Divorced in just a few years.

“But me and my Lincoln? We fight like cats and dogs - like it’s our job to piss each other off -  and it’s the happiest I could’ve ever imagined myself being. We know how to get the best and worst of each other. That’s love, darlin’. I can tell you that.”

Eames shook his head. “I don’t doubt that it’s love. Arthur is-“

“Arthur is runnin’ you up against the wall, waitin’ on you to fight back. Kid’s got a stick so far up his ass, there are leaves sproutin’ in his throat. But he _wants_ to give you that control. He ain’t just gonna hand it over to you. You gotta take it! You know he loves you – make him say it.” She refilled his glass. “He ain’t the only one in the relationship. You’re young and you’re so wide eyed and waiting for rejection that you’d rather curl up in a ball than realize you can’t live without one another.”

Eames was a bit star-struck, and probably too inebriated to have taken it all in, but he smiled a bit anyway. “Are you projecting on me, L.A.?”

She laughed. “Well, maybe I am, but it sounded good, didn’t it?”

Eames nodded.

She leaned on the bar and lowered her voice to a whisper. “My Lincoln was just like you. I was dead set on pushing him away, and he didn’t know what to do with himself. ‘Til one day I pushed too far and he made sure I knew that I wasn’t gonna find another man like him. And God be with me, the man knew what he was saying.”

“And you’re still together, yeah?”

“Damn right. Twenty-three years in the fall.” She decided to pour herself a shot of whiskey, throwing it back like a real champion. “Even in the times that we hated each other, we never asked the other to change. When it’s right, you sorta melt into one another like chocolate in the heat. Nothin’ else really matters, long as you’re together at the end of the day.

“There’s your man.”

Eames turned slowly as the bell above the entrance rang for the new patron. He watched Arthur come in, wrapped in his long coat, eyes already Eames’ way. They shared a careful look as Arthur came up to him.

“How many?” Arthur asked, his voice having no inflection that Eames could interpret.

“Lost count.”

“Me too,” Lily Anne added when Arthur looked her way. “Get him out of here. Bloody drunkard.”

Eames couldn’t help chuckling as he stood rather unsteadily. “Thanks, L.A.”

Arthur stayed behind Eames, letting him lead the way out, and he didn’t say a word as they walked into the night, as quickly as they could to get out of the cold.

Abruptly, Eames turned, and Arthur nearly ran into him.

“I love you,” Eames said, tongue heavy and drunk, but happy to be rid of the words. “Goddammit, there’s no one else, and there hasn’t been anyone else, and I’ll be damned if there ever is anyone else.”

“Eames.”

“Yeah, I’m drunk, but Christ have it. This isn’t nonsense to me. This-“ He gestured to the space between them. “-is what matters to me. This isn’t a con – I’m not lying to myself, and you aren’t lying to me either. Don’t lie to yourself.”

He didn’t realize how lightheaded he was feeling, or that he was nearly stepping on Arthur’s feet as close as he’d gotten. Maybe it was the cold, making his body automatically seek warmth. Maybe it was almost dying days before, and realizing that he’d barely touched Arthur since he’d been home.

Home. Home wasn’t just a building anymore. It was the short texts at odd times when they were countries a part. It was the quick drawings he scratched out and slipped into Arthur’s suitcase before they went their separate ways. It was standing in the middle of the street in nine-degree weather, drunk and putting his heart on the line.   




An address meant nothing. Arthur was home.

“Do you want me here, Arthur?” he asked, and God, the liquor was purring in his stomach, and his lips were so close to falling against Arthur’s, their breaths hot and tangled between them in the crisp cold night. “Tell me you want me to go this time, and I promise I’ll go. But if you tell me you need me as much as I need you… If you tell me that you love me and want me here, goddamn it, I’m never leaving you again.”

He could almost see the air freeze in Arthur’s chest, the words catch in his beautiful brown eyes, but no words fell from his lips.

“C’mon. It’s cold, love.”

“It is. It’s cold.”

“Tell me.”

“I love you.”

They barely made it in the door before Eames fell against Arthur, pushing him against the wall and kissing him with the same hunger he’d felt that first time all those months ago. With the power he knew he held, he pulled a moan out of Arthur’s chest, a soft ‘I love you’ that meant everything.

“Right here, yeah?” Eames asked with a bit of a laugh as they sloppily pushed their coats from one another.

“Yeah. Right here.”

Arthur brought them down to the floor, and he begged for it in a way that sounded romantic and true, from the back of his throat and full of air. As if he knew already. As if he knew Eames would give him whatever he wanted, whatever he needed, and all of the other things he had no clue he deserved.

And God how good it felt to give it to him. Even if it was a bit sloppy, with all of the carpet-burn and Eames’ whiskey-littered breath. Even if they were a bit too loud for witch’s hour. It was just so fucking good to let love fall, with sticky and sweaty skin and heaving breath and incomprehensible falters. Eames crushed himself against Arthur, as if they couldn’t get close enough, as if they wouldn’t get that moment again.

But that was the blessing of moments like these – knowing. Knowing that it could be the last moment, and hoping that it won’t be. Hoping that, as you lay breathless on a floor, completely spent and aching, that you get to do it again. And again. And so many times that you can barely remember the first moment, or the last fight, or the moments alone.

And then, one day, something will happen. Something will trigger this memory. The smell of cinnamon or the bristle of trees will force the mind awake, and show the moments you forgot, the moments that you can’t believe you let slip away.

“Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Admittedly, I superimpose Ruby Thewes from Cold Mountain on any southern character I write. Sorry to any southern Americans who think I butchered their vernacular.


End file.
